


brother

by sirenseven



Series: props [9]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Bruce Wayne, Gen, Good Bro Dick Grayson, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Manipulation, Physical Abuse, Repressed Memories, a spicy pinch of victim blaming, implied/referenced Tim Drake/Bruce Wayne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:13:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25773406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenseven/pseuds/sirenseven
Summary: The thing is, as much as he's been thinking, and rethinking, and overthinking, he doesn't actuallyknowanything. Until he does.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Alfred Pennyworth, Dick Grayson/Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson
Series: props [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1728181
Comments: 84
Kudos: 158





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Man, I have been looking forward to this one for awhile, but it was a nightmare to sort out. Hopefully the second chapter will go quicker. This is easily the lowest-rated installment of the series yet sex-wise, but content warnings do still apply so as always be sure to check!
> 
> This series is now 50k (!!!!) which is incredible to me. I've never written something this long, even if it's a series instead of a single fic. I genuinely love all of you who have interacted with it ♥ Speaking of which, I made a tumblr @writerseven! It's mostly empty, but I am always ready to talk about this series in particular, writing in general, DC, etc. I also posted a tie-in ficlet there with Dick's PoV of part of _runaway_ that I wrote trying to warm up for this fic if anyone is interested in reading that!
> 
> This fic sort of moves us into what I think of as the next segment of the series. Don't quote me on this, but that may also mean less (though not no) smut going forward. I have no idea what the vibe is on that (I'm assuming some of you are here just for the porn, and others are delighted at the idea of less smut in your twisted character/relationship development), but I'm mostly just following where the story takes me.
> 
> Finally, for those of you in the US, news coverage may have decreased, but protests are still ongoing and [donations to bailfunds](https://bailfunds.github.io/) are always helpful (even not during protests!) if you have the money to spare.
> 
> With that way-too-long authors note out of the way, onto a totally new point of view...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ETA: Not tagging because it's very light, but a mild warning here for possible self harm and/or ED triggers (a character references not taking care of themselves, including not eating properly).

Dick slams his elbow into the nearest face. It hits harder than strictly necessary, but somehow he can't pluck up any sympathy for the poor little human trafficker. A broken cheekbone and rough collision with the ground are more than deserved. The fight wraps up quicker than he'd like, with a few more good hits from him and absolutely no good hits against him. Dick tells himself he's not upset about that.

When all the bastards are out cold, tied up, or both, he grapples to the nearest roof and sends in a call to the police for pick-up. Dick still wouldn't trust cops for any more sensitive situation—certainly not Blüdhaven cops—but after his brief foray as a spy-of-sorts on the force got the more corrupt half of officers fired, he can at least count on them to arrest the guilty.

Dick takes a deep breath, drinking in the sounds of the city. It's midnight, but he's already five hours into patrol. All the cases he planned to tackle tonight are wrapped up, nothing to do but swing on and search for the next danger.

He doesn't teach any classes on Monday. Seemed like such a great idea at the time. Dick was lucky to find a trapeze-related job in Blüdhaven at all, and that they were only hiring part-time was a bonus. Trying to work full-time, watch over Blüdhaven alone as Nightwing, _and_ run his team almost killed him.

He's doing better now. Making healthy choices. Finally had the good sense to step back from the ill-fitting Outsiders team, finally put aside his pride to avoid a full-time job when Bruce's money is happy to cushion any fall, finally prioritized things like sleep and food and personal well-being. He let himself spiral for months after—after everything that happened. Blockbuster. Tarantula. Himself. It's been a breath of fresh air to make healthy choices again.

Right now, Dick would rather be working himself to death.

Working himself to death leaves no time to overthink. Working himself to death means he can't pause to debate if he unknowingly led his littlest brother into the lion's den, or if his undead younger brother might have transformed into something monstrous, or if his not-dad is a—

Yeah. So. He got an early start to patrol.

Dick can feel himself regressing by the second. It's like he's weeks out from what happened again, instead of months. He wants to get in a fight he might not win. He wants to pour over cases 24/7 while neglecting food and sleep. He wants to find a horrible, dangerous, completely ill-advised person to crawl into bed with so he can pull some of the roiling shame inside him to the outside, or maybe just so he can get hurt.

He should probably talk to a professional. Been awhile. Dick hasn't seen a therapist since he was living with the ever-encouraging Titans and had just become Nightwing. Oh, for his greatest woe to be Bruce kicking him out again.

Tim kissed him.

Nope, nope, not thinking. Dick shakes himself, stepping to the nearest ledge to peer hopefully into the alley below. It is Blüdhaven; _someone_ nearby must be up to no good, even if wishing for a violent crime isn't his best look. Considering Dick spent a not-insignificant portion of the afternoon hoping one of his neighbors might start screaming for help, and feeling very guilty about it, this is an improvement.

Frustratingly, there is no attempted murder going on in the alley. Well, okay, fine, good for the hypothetical victim, but very frustrating for _Dick_.

Tim kissed him.

 _Stop that_. He can't, though. He's locked on, no matter how useless it is to dwell. It's like trying to pour over a case without the files: hyper-analyzing every word Tim has said and every twitch of his expressions, when Dick only has his own shoddy memory to reference.

The not-a-case has taken over his mind nonetheless. In lieu of doing something bombastic and hazardous to his health, the only other thing Dick wants to do is drive straight to Gotham, scale the Drakes' manor, climb in Tim's window, and watch over his little brother like a benevolent stalker for the next, say, ten to sixty years. Give or take a decade.

Which is stupid, because Dick doesn't _know_ anything. Not for certain.

He doesn't _know_ from what—or if—Tim needs protecting. He doesn't _know_ who—if anyone—is involved. Tim was right, on the phone; Dick asked a million leading questions rife with assumptions, and Tim never actually said any of it. Never confirmed. Dick could be tying himself in knots over nothing. He doesn't know, so he shouldn't jump to conclusions.

He sure keeps thinking, though. About shared showers after patrol. About encouragement to stick with his acrobat roots and don a leotard instead of pants. About every time he crawled into Bruce's bed after a nightmare—now wondering if Bruce was as innocent as he seemed, offering distant comfort, or laying there and fantasizing with Dick two inches away.

About that one time Dick came home drunk.

The thoughts spiral out. Bruce always disapproving of his relationships; the way he silently hated Kory when Dick introduced them, still says her name with disdain; his insistence that Dick dating Barbara would only damage the team. And further out, to every single piece of advice, encouragement, or disagreement Bruce has ever given him. To every interaction he had with Jason before, with Tim now. If Dick tries hard enough, he can come up with a sinister subtext for anything. He links clues in his mind like he's cracked a case—and the next minute, all he can see is the barely strung-together madness of a tinfoil hat conspiracy theorist.

So. He's been thinking. But he doesn't actually _know_ —until Dick sees Batman standing on a roof in Blüdhaven, and the breath freezes in his lungs.

Dick is such a fucking liar.

He knows.

Dick isn't aware of moving until his feet are pounding across the roof. He fires the line on pure instinct, throwing himself into the swing with the confidence of an acrobat and no conscious thoughts in his mind. There's that stomach dropping second of weightlessness, rushing wind obscuring any noise—

And then Dick slams both-feet-first into Bruce's head.

Sound crashes back in as they tumble in a mess of limbs and grunts, roof gravel spraying around them. Dick springs to his feet mid-roll and launches back at Batman. The shadow moves improbably quick, cape hissing against the ground as Bruce ducks aside, then snapping sharp when he whips up and around to take advantage of Dick's momentum.

Dick leans into the pull, flipping all the way over to his feet and twisting to retaliate with sharp jabs. He knows every single weak point in the armor. He knows how to make it _hurt_. Maybe he doesn't manage to land any perfectly-placed hits, but his intention is damn well clear.

A forearm slams under Dick's chin in retaliation, jarring his jaw. He bites down hard on his tongue and grunts as pain and blood burst in his mouth. Dick grits his teeth. He's too close. Bruce is best right up inside elbow room, but Dick needs distance to flip. Trying to get it, he feints a kick and strikes out with his fist.

“Whatever you've been infected with, you need to fight it,” growls Bruce, catching his arm and pulling Dick into a hold.

“What?” Dick twists to free his arm, and then contorts in a pose he knows Bruce can't imitate to pull out of the grip completely. Whatever he's been _infected_ with? Like this is some mind control, fear-gas, under-the-influence bullshit? “I'm not _infected_ by anything.” The fucking nerve, that Bruce would pretend he doesn't know exactly what's going on.

Dick swings out, uncoordinated shots that are blocked without effort. _Never fight angry_ , Bruce always says, the hypocritical bastard. Dick hates that he's right.

“Nightwing.” Bruce dodges without counter-striking, like he's forgotten this is a fucking _fight_.

“Bruce,” he snarls back. He can feel the blood slinking around his teeth and sneaking down the front of his lip. It leaps off when he jerks to action. Bruce deflects the spin kick, and Dick flips away, breathing hard. The space gives him room to move and maybe even to have a thought beyond, _I'm gonna kill you_. He almost can't believe his problem today was _over_ thinking.

“Calm down and try to think—”

“Calm _down_!?” Dick seethes, eyes darting for an opening. Batman holds in a ready stance. “Don't you dare—How can—Why don't you tell me the _truth_ and see how fucking _calm_ I—”

“You're acting irrationally,” Bruce says, barely any shift in his perfectly stoic Bat-voice.

“This is completely rational!” Dick shouts, lunging again. Finally he strikes true, foot slamming against the inside of Bruce's knee and earning a grunt of pain before the man catches him around the middle. 

Bruce forcibly flips him. Dick lands hard on his back, yanking his head away from impact at the last second. Bruce is on him before he can roll up, a scuffle that shoves Dick to his stomach, knee pressing in the small of his back.

“What is this about,” Bruce demands above him.

“ _Tim_ ,” Dick spits—literally, blood coming out with the word and staining the gravel. He struggles for a furious minute, before having the sense to go limp. After a pause, Bruce lets him up. Dick springs to his feet, backing away. Just because he's not attacking right now does not mean he's given up on the idea—but, fine, _fine_ , he can be rational. He can have a _calm_ conversation like an _adult_. Uncaring of the inevitable stain, he even wipes his mouth clean of blood with the back of his glove.

“What about him?” Bruce says, loose and unperturbed, cape whispering in flutters around him.

Dick feels his lips pulling back in fury. The question is so—so completely reasonable that he doesn't even know where to begin. “His neck,” he snaps out, the first thing to come to mind that's more than a wordless inferno of emotions. “What happened to him?”

Bruce frowns. “Jason strangled him.”

That's...exactly what Tim said. Dick pulls his anger in like a shield before it can puncture. “So you decided to just bring Jason to the manor for that?” That, at least, Tim did say. That he knows.

“Was I supposed to send him away?” Bruce almost betrays a real emotion, just for a second. “Do you _not_ want him back?”

“I don't want you to put Tim in danger.” It's much easier to stick with that certainty than to try to think about Jason. Dick doesn't even know where to begin reconciling the lanky teen he knew with the Red Hood he briefly fought and the full-grown Jason Todd he's only heard of secondhand.

Bruce takes a deep breath, and that alone nearly makes Dick lunge, that infuriating gesture of, _I am your calm, long-suffering father, and you are the unruly ward I'm forced to put up with_. “I know you dislike Jason—”

“Don't you _dare_. Don't you dare pretend I ever disliked Jason; you know damn well it—”

“That you favor Tim, then.”

“Go to hell,” Dick snaps. And then, because he can't leave it alone, “ _I_ pick favorites? _Me?_ ”

“Dick,” Bruce says, meaning, _irrational, over-emotional, vexing child_. Sometimes Dick wishes he would just say it outright and Dick could yell at him with full justification, instead of being picked down with a million little words and gestures until he loses it over something stupid and proves Bruce completely right.

“What happened?” Dick says again. This weekend, he means; before Tim came so shattered to Dick, he means; for the past three years they've had Tim; for the three years Jason was Bruce's kid; for the past _fifteen years_ Dick has known him and maybe never known him at all, he goddamn means.

“I told you,” Bruce says. He's playing dumb or he's lying, and Dick doesn't even care which. He's going to punch Bruce's stupid face in until he gets a real answer.

“No you didn't!” Dick jerks forward a half-step, scattering gravel, and Bruce shifts his weight.

Bruce takes a sharp breath. “You need to calm—”

Which is obviously the word that makes Dick lose it. He leaps nearly horizontal for a kick that catches Bruce flat in the chest and sends him stumbling. Dick charges after, trying to back him up against the small enclosure that covers the stairwell's roof access. Bruce barely deflects a punch to his unprotected jaw, Dick's gauntlet skating across the side of his cowl instead. The same side Dick kicked so satisfyingly—small consolation when Bruce whips around lightning fast to reverse their positions.

Monkey's Paw, Dick thinks when he realizes Bruce is fighting in earnest now. Another barely deflected strike, and both Dick's arms are captured. Didn't he say he wanted to get into a fight he might not win?

Bruce tugs his wrists together, crowding Dick against the enclosure's wall.

“Get off me!” Dick shouts, tugging against Bruce's iron-clad grip. Dick knows he's damn good in a fight, but right now he feels like an elementary school kid being kidnapped off the playground. “Get off—Get _off_ me!”

All he gets is an arm twisted around behind his back instead, as Bruce pins him face-first against the enclosure. Dick's forehead smacks the wall.

When Dick was seventeen or so, there was a party.

He doesn't remember the exact impetus; some major success with the Teen Titans, or maybe just a teenage desire to have fun. But there was a party, and there was a buzz in the air and a band of hormonal teenagers with a dozen crushes between them.

Dick had sex. Fumbling, awkward, genuinely _fun_ sex. Not his first time, but close to it. The pair of them went back to the party after, in blushing adolescent delight, and celebrated with the other Titans and guzzled the terrible beer they were all still young enough to think was good, until Dick remembered he was supposed to get home. 

He waltzed right in the front door of the manor on arrival, no concern for being subtle. He wanted to rub it in Bruce's face: here is your underage partner-slash-ward fully drunk, and there's nothing you can do about it. _Here_ is how little control you have over me. Dick can't remember why he was mad at Bruce that particular day, but it's not hard to name one of their many late-teen spats. He definitely knows why Bruce would have been upset at him drinking, flaunting both his lack of respect for the rules and disrespecting their night work in Bruce's eyes.

Here's the thing, though: Dick cannot, for the life of him, figure out why he knew without a shadow of a doubt telling Bruce he had sex would infuriate the man.

It did. It really, really did.

Dick doesn't think about that night, or at least not beyond getting home. Out of mind, out of memory, until he managed to forget it entirely. It's been suddenly on his mind this week, locked just barely out of reach by a crumbling wall. The first and only time he dared to come home drunk.

He read this article once that said memories are rewritten each time they're recalled, progressively becoming more slanted. Only the ones completely locked away remain clear. That's probably why his mother's laugh has eroded from his mind, no longer a true representation but an amalgam of the laughs of his favorite women.

It's also probably why, when Bruce presses him into the wall with his full body, Dick can remember exactly what it felt like when he did the same that night.

 _Why were you so mad about it? Why were you so mad about_ me _having sex, when you'd never been against safe teen sex in general?_

He knows, though. He knows the real question. _Why were you so mad about me having sex with someone who wasn't you?_

Hard body against his back, breath in his ear, shoved face-first into a wall. There weren't armored suits or weapons between them back then, pinned in the gaping silence of Wayne Manor instead of outside above Blüdhaven, but the similarities click together perfectly, and just like that it floods back. The hissed recriminations in his ear, hand groping around his jeans, cold terror gripping his heart in fear of how far Bruce would go to show his disapproval—

Dick gasps in air through gritted teeth, clenched to stop any sound from escaping. He shakes violently, not sure if he's holding back further screams of rage or sobs. With monumental effort, he forces himself calm. Breathe in. Breathe out.

After a minute with no escape attempts launched, Bruce slowly lowers his head against the side of Dick's hair. It's too soft for the way Dick's twisted shoulder burns in his grip, for the metallic taste off his throbbing tongue. Dick goes very still, for all his pounding pulse keeps a beat in his ears. His eyes squeeze shut tight enough to make light burst in his vision.

Bruce doesn't move. Dick finally catches up to the realization that he's not going to.

When he opens his eyes, it takes a moment for the blurry metal against his face to resolve. It's not a smooth surface, inexpertly painted white, worn by years in Blüdhaven.

Dick should be hoarse when he speaks, or swallowing past a lump, but it's like all the conflicted emotions have canceled out and constricted down into a little ball of nothing. “Are you sleeping with him?”

Bruce's breath skirts against the side of his cheek. A single exhale lasts five of Dick's rabbit heartbeats. “Why would you ask me that?”

“Because I know how—because I know how it makes you—” How it makes you crazy. How it makes you _hurt_. He knows the exact feeling that makes you throw yourself at someone completely inappropriate. Hypersexuality. Dick went for the terrible, dangerous, bad ideas after Catalina, but Tim picked him because—because _I thought you would be nice about it_. Because Dick was _safe_. So he has to be worth that. He has to.

“Dick,” Bruce says, gentle. It's such a jarring contrast to his violent imagination that it leaves Dick reeling.

It shouldn't, though. Of course he's gentle. Just like the Blüdhaven cops before Dick thinned their department, just like the traffickers before he beat them up tonight, just like Catalina. The person with the upper hand can always afford to be gentle.

The shape of Bruce against his back makes nausea broil in Dick's stomach. He swallows.

“Get off me,” Dick whispers, “please.”

Bruce doesn't, not really, but he releases Dick's arm and leans back. Rolling his shoulder, Dick sucks in the air like its quality might have changed for that one inch of distance. He doesn't dare turn around.

It takes a few breaths to get his voice. “Stop.” Dick swallows again. There's the lump. “You need to stop. What—whatever it is you're doing, you need to stop. You're hurting him.”

“It's okay,” Bruce soothes, still close enough to irritate the hair on the back of Dick's neck when he speaks. Dick goes stiff in fear of a more blatant touch. He doesn't know what he'll do if Bruce tries to pat his shoulder, act like a real parent offering comfort. “Everyone is okay.”

Dick shakes his head, determined verging into frantic. “It's _not_.”

It's not okay, because Tim isn't okay. Tim at the very _least_ ; for all he can put together, Dick cannot begin to imagine how Jason fits into this now. If Bruce is what Dick—No. _Because_ Bruce is what Dick thinks he is, he can only assume it's both brothers he's failed.

Glad for the mask, Dick looks up to clear his eyes and steal himself. Slowly, careful not to provoke retribution, he turns around.

Bruce's arms hang loose, but their chests nearly touch even with Dick's back pressed against the wall. Seeing the tiny space he's been left only increases Dick's claustrophobia. For Bruce's stone face and perfect stillness, he may as well be stuck between two walls.

“Just stop doing it,” Dick says, calm and even, pretending the looming hasn't gotten to him. “Maybe you don't mean to,” a naively hopeful concession, “but you _are_ hurting him.”

Bruce frowns. “You don't even know what it is you're asking me to stop.”

God, he wishes he were still able to pretend that was true. Dick swallows back mingled regret and guilt. “Yes, I do.”

“You don't,” Bruce says, firmer. Batman. “You're making wild assumptions based on nothing, or...” Dick can't actually see his eyes behind the coldly inhuman whiteouts, but he's spent enough time with Batman to recognize where he's looking by the slight tilt of his head. Bruce's gaze drops down Dick's body and slides back up. “Projecting.”

“ _Projecting?_ ” Dick surges up.

Bruce shoves him back with a hand to the chest, banging Dick against the wall. Neither his expression nor his tone change in the slightest.

“Whatever your reasoning...” Bruce starts. He gives Dick a hard look and the implication, _no matter how much you deny it_ , is clear. Like Bruce has already proven he's right and Dick can't be trusted to know even his own emotions.

Dick clenches his jaw so hard it shakes.

“It's admirable you want to protect Tim,” Bruce continues, “but far less so to instantly point the blame at me. You don't know anything, you can't prove anything, and you clearly have no ability to rationally act on anything.”

“I _know_ ,” Dick says. “I know what you're doing. Tim—”

“Spent all weekend at the manor,” Bruce says, and he may as well have stabbed Dick with an icicle, “where he _wanted_ to be. He lied to you, because you made him uncomfortable.”

Dick's eyes burn. He can't name why; humiliation, guilt, fear, anger. He can't even say if he believes Bruce—just that he has absolutely nothing to contradict it. Does it even matter who's right if no one else can argue?

“You're hurting him.” His throat is so choked it comes out as a whisper. “I know what you're doing.”

The lack of a denial is probably the closest Dick will ever get to confirmation.

“What exactly,” says Bruce, “do you intend to do?”

The certainty of his voice makes the answer clear even before it hits Dick. He can't talk Bruce out of something he's already made his mind up about. He certainly can't beat Bruce. Can't get Tim to stay with him because Bruce will simply demand him back. Can't get Tim to stay home with his dad because Tim won't give up Robin. All Dick has are vague conversations and a single, decade-old memory.

Nothing. Dick can do exactly nothing. And Bruce knows it.

Bruce's hand gently curves around the side of his neck and Dick freezes, thinking of finger-shaped bruises and pale throats. Bruce slowly leans in until the matte surface of the cowl touches Dick's forehead. He closes his eyes rather than look at Bruce's face or Batman's cowl. A thumb pets his neck. Soft gestures, Cat lowering him onto his back in the rain. Dick should have known he was outmatched.

Bruce says nothing. Dick keeps waiting for words that don't come. After an age, he's unable to resist the desperate need to drain tension, body loosing under the too-kind touch. Only then does Bruce pull back, sliding his hand up to ruffle Dick's hair before removing it.

He holds Dick's gaze through both masks for a heavy second. When Bruce looks away, Dick knows the subject has been closed.

“There's a case I think might interest you in Gotham,” Bruce says. “Traveling performers. I'll let you know if it has a new break.”

It's how he's always offered olive branches, connecting via night work and the implied trust therein instead of allowing himself explicit emotional displays. Dick nods numbly.

“Be careful,” Bruce says. Dick doesn't know if it's a blessing or a threat. Before he can ask, there's a flutter of cape and a sweeping shadow, and Batman is gone.

Dick is glad for his early start, because nothing else is getting done in Blüdhaven tonight. He's barely conscious of getting home, instinct carrying him back to his apartment and stripping him out of the suit. His mind buzzes at unpleasant half-power through the post-patrol routine. He stands in the shower blankly for ten minutes before remembering he's supposed to get clean.

Useless. Dick smears shampoo between his hands, stomach turning. Completely useless. Bruce can do anything he wants, at anytime. Anywhere. He doesn't even have to be in his perfectly memorized city. He can do it in Dick's city too. Come to Blüdhaven and win a fight he didn't even know Dick would start. Come to Blüdhaven and effortlessly rip apart anything Dick says. Come to Blüdhaven and prove just how little Dick's desperate stabs at proving himself mean. Come to...

Blüdhaven. Come to Blüdhaven.

What was Bruce doing in Blüdhaven?

Dick stares at the shower tiles for a solid minute, suds running off his hair, trying to come up with an answer besides the obvious. He can't. Gotham is busy as always, the League is more busy than usual, and if there was anything big enough happening in Blüdhaven to pull Batman's attention away from both, Dick would know about it. The only thing Bruce has any reason to come to Blüdhaven for is him. 

But Dick is...useless? He washes out his hair, mind whirring back to life in jumps and jolts. Bruce came to see him. They only spoke about one thing, which means that's what Bruce came to see him about. And Bruce doesn't leave Gotham just for a chat. He leaves Gotham when he has to.

There's nothing Dick can do, except Bruce came all the way out here just to put Dick in his place. Which means there is something. There must be.

He just has to figure out what.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've added the same warning to last chapter, but I realized I should give a mild warning here for possible self harm and/or ED triggers (a character references not taking care of themselves, including not eating properly). This one also has a mild emetophobia warning for purely hypothetical references.

“I talked to Bruce,” Dick says.

He hadn't called last night. He'd gotten close: navigated to the contact and then faltered when he'd seen his own six texts in a row. Dick second-guessed the line between helpful and overbearing a hundred time. He can't shake the certainty that he always misses the mark no matter where he falls. _You made him uncomfortable_ , rang in his head with a sting of shame

So he hadn't called. Dick fell asleep with the phone in hand and woke up with it still beside him on the pillow, regarding him in judgment. He'd made it the whole morning before breaking.

“Oh,” says Tim. He doesn't exactly sound happy.

God, Dick did not think this conversation through. For all he agonized over making the call, he really should have composed a mental script too.

Dick's foot kicks against the intersection between floor and cabinet, nervous tension he can't shake. “He said...” Hunching over the counter, he leans on a hand and resets. Calm and direct, no hedging allowed. “I know what he's doing. To you.”

His toe taps the cabinet twice before Tim says, “He said something?”

Dick hesitates. Bruce's lingering thread of plausible deniability gnaws at him, but it's Tim. There's nothing _Dick_ has to convince _him_ of. Convention would put things the other way around, but Dick is already convinced. “He didn't have to.”

The pause is much longer this time. Dick only knows Tim hasn't hung up because of the ambient noise through the call, vague sounds of people. WayneTech phones. Great call quality; completely unhelpful for reading body language.

“I'm at school,” Tim finally says.

“I know.” It's his lunch break. That background chatter could be kids in a cafeteria, but knowing Tim they're more likely outside on the grounds, even with the November chill. Maybe a restaurant off-campus; Tim is old enough to leave for lunch now—though he said he was at school. Unless he's lying. “I know that, but...”

“I have—I have an essay to finish,” Tim says, “and I'm—I'm at school, Dick.”

“I'm sorry,” Dick says, hunching over both elbows now, phone cradled to his ear, “but there's no other time I can call you.” And be sure Bruce isn't around, he means. Dick is no longer confident about where Tim spends his evenings, but Bruce doesn't accompany him to high school. “We need to talk about it.”

“No, we don't.”

“Tim, look.” Dick closes his eyes to center himself, but the idea that anyone could suddenly appear to pin him while he has his guard down snaps them open immediately. His hand constricts around the phone, glancing back to verify the apartment is still empty. “I don't...I don't care if you have a crush or if you don't, okay? Or what you told me, or where you were all weekend. We _need_ to talk about Bruce.”

Thunk-thunk-thunk of his toes against the cabinet. Tim only has twenty minutes left for lunch, and the limited time to talk and plan and _fix_ feels like it's slipping through Dick's fingers. This was not supposed to be the hard part. Dick already knows; Tim was supposed to be _relieved_.

“You said he didn't tell you anything,” Tim says, not relieved.

“Yes, but I _know_ , okay?” Dick frowns at the counter, wishing Tim would talk a little quicker and sooth his fraying impatience.

“You're just guessing.”

“I'm trying to help you, Tim,” Dick snaps, too loud. He regrets it immediately. “I'm sorr—” Dick sucks in air, pressing a fist over his mouth as he shoots up from the counter. _Calm_ , dammit. “Look. What about talking to your dad?”

“My _dad_?” Tim says, more horrified than he's sounded the entire conversation. He quickly lowers his voice, hissing, “Are you kidding!? I can't tell my _dad_. Even just telling him about the night job, he'd—He hates Bruce. He'd go crazy. I can't.”

For all he talks, Tim rarely brings up his family outside of struggles and guilt over secret identities. Dick knows that Jack Drake once topped the absentee charts while Tim toured through boarding schools. From Tim's rare comment since, he thought Jack had really been trying to change, no matter how belated his come-to-Jesus moment. Now he has the distinct suspicion that Tim was overselling it.

That's really fucking inconvenient right now.

Dick drops his hand to the tile. “Could you just—”

“No,” Tim says, before he can even finish the sentence. “I'm—I have to go, Dick.”

“ _Tim_ ,” Dick pleads. He wants to say it's purely for his brother's sake, like trying to drag someone out of a burning building even when they refuse to leave. He's not sure that's the only reason, though. Dick hasn't had three years to get used to this. “Can we please just talk?”

“I have an essay to finish,” Tim repeats.

Dick would swear his shaking is in anger, except the counter is blurring below him. “Tim—”

“I'm sorry,” Tim mumbles, and hangs up.

Dick stares at the counter, digging his hands in against its lip, and takes deep breaths until he's steady again. Okay. This is okay. He knew it wouldn't be easy, and he hasn't run out of plans yet. There's still time to rally up.

–

The side door glides smoothly open into a dark kitchen. Dick carefully slips his keys into a pocket as he closes it behind him. He doesn't turn on the lights, but does, after a hesitation, take off his coat and hang it on the nearby hook. The idea of staying long makes him sharply uncomfortable, but he's already fighting back a nauseous mix of guilt and dread that won't be helped by overheating.

He's kept his cool externally, but his internal peace is shot to hell. Three classes he teaches Tuesday evening, crammed into the after-school slot, and even as he kept a bright smile, Dick missed an easy trick in every single one.

The temptation to turn and bail is strong. He's clearly off his game anyway; why bother with something doomed to fail?

Dick already ruled out going behind Tim's back where his dad is concerned. Even assuming Jack Drake would believe him, a dad whose kid has successfully snuck out of his house most nights the past three years isn't going to be able to put a stop to it now. Not if Tim isn't on board. Pointless at best—and detrimental at worst, if Tim's fears of an overreaction prove true.

So maybe this attempt is pointless too, the little voice says. What can _Dick_ do? (Nothing.) Would Tim be upset about this too? (Probably.) He should just turn around before he sees anyone, go home, and stick his head in the sand. It was really nice in the sand. Cozy. Blissful.

He thinks it's the same kind of voice that says, _just step aside; she's going to shoot him anyway_. He's been trying to ignore it. A simple reminder has helped: Alfred Pennyworth is certainly no Jack Drake.

Dick just has to _get_ to him.

Much as the immediacy would have freaked him out, Dick was sort of hoping to find Alfred in the kitchen. No such luck. The manor is quiet as far as he can hear.

It's late. Batman should be patrolling by now, especially after leaving Gotham last night. Alfred might be downstairs helping over comms, or cleaning the manor out of earshot, or maybe relaxing in his quarters if he's beaten the family trend towards overworking tonight. Not sleeping, though. Never sleeping—never entirely relaxing—until all his charges are home safe.

Dick slips out of the kitchen to search. Moonlight and dimmed wall lamps illuminate the halls just enough to creep through. He stays as on-edge for signs of life as he would in any rogue's hideout. Dick feels like he's in one of those old training simulations Bruce ran him through in the Robin days where he had to navigate obstacles and hit all the cardboard cut-out bad guys as they sprung up, but protect the equally sudden civilians. Find Alfred, but avoid Bruce. If for some reason Bruce is still home...

He should have asked Oracle. Confirmation would ease his heart rate right about now. Dick was too afraid she would ask _why_ , though. Awkward at best, so soon after the breakup. At worst...Barbara's as good an investigator as him, and even more dogged when she thinks she's being shut out. He can't let her stumble on this. So Dick's going in blind.

The odds are on his side, Dick reminds himself. There is every reason to believe Batman has left by now. Batman _and_ Robin, because at this point Dick can only assume Tim has just...

 _If you were better, you would have stopped them before tonight_. But if Dick were better, so much would be different.

As he passes the parlor opposite the cave's entrance, Dick spots wide shoulders and a dark head of hair over the back of a chair. His heart lurches, ice shooting down every limb. Dick jerks to the side, pulled behind the doorframe, ready to duck his head back the instant Bruce turns—

Only then does he catch up to the subtle differences. Bruce has a wider jaw, and he's never done his hair like that.

Dick's heart stutters for an entirely different reason, hand dropping from the wall. He's catapulted back to that months-ago feeling, like getting Alfred's breathless call again for the first time; _“He's alive, Master Dick.”_

_Who, Alfred?_

“Jason,” Dick murmurs, stumbling into the room.

He—the man— _Jason_ —stands, dropping a book and turning aside the chair.

It's him. Same crooked nose, cleft chin, blue eyes. Curl at the tips of his hair, barest hint of freckles. The pinchable cheeks he had last time Dick saw him have eroded. He was fourteen then. Months before he died. Dick wasn't around much—god, he wishes he'd been around so much—didn't even see him at fifteen. Jason was always quartered up in the manor with Bruce, or on patrol with Bruce, or—with Bruce. Dick tried to get together on outings, succeeded in setting up a few, wanted to know his kid brother. But otherwise... Well. Bruce had made it _very_ clear how welcome Dick was.

Jason's face has gotten longer. His shoulders about a million times wider, muscles defined, practically twice his old height. Fuck, he's taller than Dick. He's thicker too, must rival Bruce for sheer size. Dick saw him in uniform the other month, but it's completely different from seeing his face.

“God, you got big,” Dick says, dumbly obvious, unable to put words to the larger feeling.

“Dick,” Jason says.

Dick takes a half step towards him before clocking onto the tone. It's not...friendly. Dick blinks and finally manages to focus on more than _my undead brother_. Jason wears a plain white t-shirt and a pair of Wayne Enterprises sweats Dick recognizes as Bruce's.

And a frown.

“Hi,” Dick says, more cautious this time. He inches forward as a test, halting when Jason tenses up.

Oh. The last time he saw Jay, they fought. Not that Dick knew _who_ he was fighting, but the mysterious Red Hood was buying Kryptonite and decapitating drug dealers and activating Amazo. But if he's here, if he's come home, even with Tim and all the bad blood...

“How, uh.” Dick almost laughs at the inanity of the question and almost gets choked up as he says, “How are you?”

“Just swell.” Dick can't stop his gaze from darting over every inch of Jason's living-breathing-moving body, but he pulls back up to his face at the sardonic tone.

It was a lifeline when Alfred told him. A living brother thought dead. A second chance for a closer relationship, now that Dick and Bruce had finally found equilibrium. A reason to stop slowly killing himself, dancing closer and closer to making a fatal mistake on patrol with every missed meal or rest. Jason was gone as soon as they'd gotten him back, vanished after a confrontation Bruce only vaguely recounted, but just the fact he was _out there_ —

It wasn't necessarily the reason Dick pulled himself together, but it might have been the catalyst.

Now he doesn't even know where to begin speaking. And Jason is looking at him like he's—like he's disgusting. Like Dick is everything he thinks of himself and worse.

His stomach sicks. Does Jason know? He must, must have some inkling of it, Bruce and Tim. Or—or maybe, Dick hates the thought, knows firsthand himself. Maybe that's not the source of his current disgust—the revelation is only new to Dick—but if he knows, then he knows how utterly Dick has failed him, failed everyone, and he...

Dick can't even blame him for the sneer.

“It's good to see you,” he finally says, a monumental understatement. The desperate selfish part of him still craves that tears-and-laughter, falling-into-arms, music-swelling reunion, but it's clearly not going to happen. “It's—it's really good to see you.”

“Weird to see you,” says Jason in that same tone, wry and unkind. “Didn't think you cared about this place much.”

“Worked it out,” Dick murmurs, though more guilt stacks up. (He didn't think there was any room left.) His brother is back from the dead, and he's not even the reason Dick came here—he's too busy making up for old mistakes.

He's anxious to bolt and complete his goal, but equally desperate to stay with Jason and just _talk_. He'd take any well-earned criticisms just to have that time. Dick struggles for a way to suggest they sit and catch up and get to the bottom of that off-putting tone without provoking it into ire though.

Jason speaks before he can come up with the words. “Made up with Bruce then?”

Dick swallows. There's something—something weird, in Jason's demeanor, that he can't put a finger on. It puts him on edge, even as he nods. “Took a while,” he adds, careful and measured.

Maybe it's just that he's still trying to look for a kid where there's only a man. Or maybe it's a very important reminder of just how much Jason has changed. Red Hood. Killing. Attacking Tim.

Did he really strangle Tim this weekend like Dick has been told? Does he know he's been given the blame for it? Dick has enough corroborating witnesses to feel confident Jason really did try to kill Tim when he first reappeared, but he is lost in the dark over more recent events.

“Yeah?” Jason shifts to lean on the chair's backrest. “You guys bond over the new dead kid?”

Dick releases an unhappy breath. “No.” At Jason's deepening frown, he hastens to explain, “It's Bruce. He never _bonds_ over anything; he does his grief alone.”

Jason's expression softens just a hint at that. Dick isn't sure if it's affection for the familiar tendencies, or the mere reminder that he was mourned.

“Guess that sounds like him,” Jason admits.

Dick would usually give a humorless snort here, sharing in affectionate exasperation over Bruce's more unhealthy habits. Right now he finds laughing about anything related to Bruce impossible.

He has to know. Not because he wants to—he really, really fucking doesn't—but because it's important.

“When you were Robin,” Dick says, pushing through the unpromising twist of Jason's mouth, “did—were...You and Bruce...”

“Me and Bruce,” Jason echoes, raising his eyebrows and shifting weight further on his arm.

“Were you...” God, just _say it_. Just fucking say it. Why can't he just— “Were you happy?”

(Coward.)

“Was I happy.” Jason's mouth pulls wide. Hard to call it a smile. His hand drums on the backrest a few times, thump-thump-thump. “'Course I was happy. I was Robin, wasn't I?”

“Yeah,” Dick says, though he can remember a million times when being Robin to Bruce's Batman was a thoroughly unpleasant experience. “But Bruce, was he...good to you?”

“Sure,” says Jason. “Took me off the streets, didn't he? Gave me a rich kid's life and something to fight for. Adopted me right out.”

It's a mark of the times that Dick doesn't flinch over the reminder. Jason adopted in a day; Dick...not. That sting is a distant pain now. Dick's recent adoption papers are surrounded by conflicted feelings entirely removed from his old insecurity next to Jason.

“Right. I'm glad.” Dick means it, too. If Jason really had untroubled life as Robin, Dick will be nothing but relieved. He leans forward unconsciously. “And he was good? I mean, he never made you uncomfortable, or pushed too hard, or made you feel like being Robin was a transactional thing?”

“You remember who's the billionaire and who was the homeless kid, right?” Jason quirks his eyebrows. “Not exactly in the budget to pay him for crime-fighting lessons.”

“Did he ever hurt you?” Dick presses.

Jason sighs, long and loud. “Jeez, Dickie, I thought you two were supposed to have made up.”

Dick realizes he's taken a step forward without meaning to and pulls himself back. “We have.” Well. They _did_.

Jason still looks bemused by the question.

Dick forces an exhale of performative relief, like he's chagrined over his own paranoia. For all he can't say the words, he's hardly being subtle. Jason either truly has no idea what he's talking about, or is determined to act like it. If it's the first...if it's the first, Dick will break his heart _after_ he has things handled. If it's the _second_ , he wants out of this conversation as soon as fucking possible. Interrogating exactly why Jason chooses to deflect will only shake Dick's determination further.

“Sorry,” he says. “I've just been—thinking. Don't worry about it. I'm glad you're back.”

“Good to be back.” For the first time, Dick is confident Jason's smile is real.

He glances to the book Jason draped over the armrest, the electric fireplace, his enormous younger brother in borrowed sweats. It's a cozy scene, but disconcerting. The uncanny valley of appearing not quite as Dick remembers it. Staying still in a house crammed to the brim with secrets and traps is fraying at his nerves.

“I'll let you get back to your book,” says Dick. “We can catch up later.”

“Got somewhere to be?” It's been too long since he's interacted with Jason. Dick has forgotten how to tell when he's teasing from a place of love and when he's annoyed. Or maybe it's only Jason who's changed.

“Just gonna check in with Alfred,” Dick says. Not a lie, if wildly understated. “Any idea where he is?”

Jason shrugs, but indicates the study across the hall. “He went down when B did.”

“Thanks,” says Dick.

He thinks he feels worse than when he started.

–

The stairs descending into the cave are long. They provide a solid ninety seconds for Dick to panic.

He's got plenty of material. What if Bruce is still here? What if he came back with a piece of evidence to be analyzed? An injury to be treated? What if Alfred is talking to him over comms right now and he'll see Dick and say he has to go and Bruce will say, _Is something wrong Alfred?_ and Alfred will say, _Not at all, sir; Master Dick is here_ , and then Bruce will know and he'll come back and—

Dick stops mid-staircase, forcing his breathing even. _Get a hold of yourself_. Think this through, what is the absolute worst that can happen?

If Bruce is there, he'll...no. He can't do anything. Can't hurt Dick, can't hurt Tim, and can't even discuss what this is really about, not with Alfred right there. Not unless he wants to reveal it himself, after years of hiding. Things will be tense and—and nauseatingly horrible, but Alfred's presence will be a shield.

Of course, after Dick leaves and has no shields left, who knows.

Getting himself to resume the descent is nearly impossible. It's not even the fear for himself, and if it were the fear for _Tim_ , he'd be making double time. But he keeps imagining Alfred's face.

Maybe Alfred will fix it all (god, please let Alfred fix it; Dick is so _tired_ ) or maybe he'll be too shattered by the revelation to even move. Either way, Dick owes him this. Owes him the truth, before anything else.

He just fucking hates he's the one who has to say it.

He reaches the bottom.

Despite his earlier reasoning, it feels like a hundred pound weight lifted off him when there's no Batman in the cave. Alfred stands alone, wiping off the table in front of the giant monitors. Dick tries to smile, though it dies on his face immediately. Good old Alfred. Keeping clean even a cave full of wild bats. It's the only time he can do it, too; non-patrol hours in the cave are for Batman and Robin, no butlers allowed to break focus or interrupt the bonding.

Another thing that seems far more sketchy in hindsight.

“Hey, Alfie,” Dick says. It comes out about half as loud as he meant it too, but Alfred still turns.

A smile overtakes his face. “Master Dick! Isn't this a surprise?”

They meet halfway for a light embrace from Alfred. Dick barely raises his hands to return it. He's going to be sick. This is a nightmare. He'll blink and wake up and Bruce will be normal again, and Dick won't have to tell Alfred what the man he views as a son is capable of.

“It's good to see you home,” Alfred says when they pull back, smoothing a wrinkle on the shoulder of Dick's shirt. There's an underlying cheer to his face Dick can't identify until he adds, “Master Jason is upstairs; did you see him?”

Right. Undead brother; undead grandson. No surprise Alfred's in such a good mood.

“Yeah,” Dick says, hoarse, but mostly just impressed he's managed to speak without vomiting. Alfred's delight only makes this worse. “I just saw him. He's, um.” Alive? Tall? Very off-putting and not at all like the ghost Dick has hallucinated a handful of times on fear toxin? “He looks good.”

Alfred beams. “Doesn't he just?”

He keeps talking, happy words for having all his charges back, and the pitfalls of keeping peace when one Robin has tried to murder another, but Dick can hardly concentrate. His eyes slip past Alfred to the lit-up case just beyond. Red and green and gold beam out. Even the epigraph hasn't been touched.

“Why's that still here?” Dick says and winces when he realizes he's interrupted.

Alfred doesn't complain, glancing over his shoulder. His mouth gives a wry twist at the display. “Ah, well. You know Master Bruce. It does not matter what logic or decency or _I_ say when he's determined to wallow in guilt.”

“Yeah.” Dick swallows. “I, um, I actually wanted to talk to you. About him.”

As segues go, it's lacking. But Dick struggles just to force out words, so he'll take it. God, he shouldn't be doing this here. He should take Alfred somewhere calm and safe, invite him to sit down, properly prepare him. If he delays, though, Dick is terrified he'll never been able to say a damn thing.

The words threaten to coagulate in his throat, choking him off for good. “Fuck, this is hard to—You're not gonna... I'm so sorry to tell you this.”

He means it; he's barely been more sorry for anything in his life. Dick's stomach rebels, throat tightening. He can feel his heartbeat all along the front of his ribs and up into his mouth. Hear it. His hands lock up at his sides. The stone floor of the cave looks more and more distant, though he's clenched stock-still.

Dick closes his eyes. “I'm just gonna say it.” When he opens them, he can see the crease of worry between Alfred's eyebrows, refuses to let himself look any closer than that for fear of losing his nerve. Just gonna say it, just gonna say it, just gonna say it; you can _do this_ —

What if he doesn't? Dick can say something stupid instead, watch Alfred's face clear and that smile return. They'll go upstairs, maybe, have tea with Jason, laugh and reminisce. Bruce and Tim will return later, change back in the cave, and come upstairs where they can all be together. This little messed up family in the kitchen, happy and unbothered. Alfred won't have his heart broken, and Jason can warm up again, and Bruce will smile at Dick, and Tim won't resent him. And all Dick has to do is pretend he was wrong and never say anything, until he starts to believe it himself.

They could be a good, happy family. The blissful life of ignorance.

“Bruce is abusing Tim,” Dick says, in the cool, dim cave, where there is no laughing and no reminiscing and no more lying to himself. “Bruce is—Bruce is sexually abusing Tim.”

It's the hardest sentence he's ever spoken, but the wave of relief that hits Dick when it's out nearly knocks him to his knees. He's said it. No takebacks.

Alfred's mouth squeezes, and Dick presses on before the words dry up. “I'm sorry. He has been for awhile now, I'm pretty sure, and I think he did the same to Jason. And—and not me, really, but I remember enough to...I'm sorry. I'm _so_ sorry, because I know he's like your son, and I...I didn't want to have to tell you.”

Alfred's eyes are lowered. Dick is actually relieved to not have to see his expression, heart already thump-thump-thumping.

“I'm sorry,” Dick says again. “I would give anything for it not to be true.”

Alfred's eyes are low—No. Alfred's eyes are _averted_. His lips are still pinched, brow still creased. Dick doesn't get it at first.

But something cold creeps into his chest.

“Alfie...?”

“Perhaps,” Alfred says, carefully selected words, “you should _let_ it not be true.”

Dick stops breathing. His pulse chills. The cave seems _very_ distant and there's a rush in his ears, but Alfred is too-clear in front of him. His throat hurts. “What?”

Alfred finally looks at him. Dick can see why he didn't before. It's written all over his face.

“You knew,” Dick breathes.

“Come, my boy,” Alfred says, reaching for his shoulder. Dick means to flinch back, but he can't seem to get his body to cooperate. The touch is perversely grounding.

“You _knew_ ,” says Dick. His eyes prickle. “You—how could you not—?”

Sad. Alfred looks sad. Dick doesn't understand, he doesn't _understand_. It's the wrong sadness. And Alfred's—being— _gentle_.

“Let's get you some tea and a chat,” Alfred says. Dick means to refuse that too, but the words get choked up and the next thing he knows Alfred is guiding him up that long staircase. That hand on his shoulder is so gentle and the words are so gentle and the pace is so gentle and Dick can't seem to resist any of it and he doesn't know where his—body has gone.

Alfred gets him some tea. Dick stares at it until a soft sound and Alfred sipping his own in demonstration stirs him to follow suit.

They're sitting at the kitchen island. Dick is sitting at the kitchen island, dangle of his legs off the bar stool making him feel like a kid again. Alfred stands on the other side, patiently watching him. Tea. Kitchen. Alfred knows. Dick has the vaguest presence of mind to wonder if they passed Jason on the way up. He's pretty sure they didn't; Jason must have moved.

Tea. Dick takes another sip. It might as well be water for all he can taste.

The cup clinks against the saucer as he sets it down. The saucer, slightly uneven on the bottom, clinks against the granite counter. It's much nicer than the faux-marble tiles in Dick's apartment. This room is so well designed, bright and airy in the daylight, cozy under warm cone lights at night. Kitchen.

Alfred knows. Dick looks up. The man in question is wiping down the kettle.

“How long have you known?” Dick asks. Wait, no, that's not his question. “How can, how can you know and just not _do anything_ about it? Why haven't you stopped this?”

“Were I capable of stopping Master Bruce from every foolish idea that gets into his head, he wouldn't be gallivanting about each night to risk his life dressed as a flying rodent,” says Alfred, pushing the kettle back into its designated place. “I can protect him from many things, but not himself.”

“This isn't...” Dick looks at his tea, the ripples across the surface. “This isn't the same thing. He's hurting them.”

“Master Dick...”

“No.” Dick looks up. Alfred is bringing the teapot over, facing Dick across the island. “You can't just—You can't just let him do this, Alfred!”

“There are things in his life,” Alfred says tightly, refilling his cup, “in any loved one's life, that are simply separate from our own.”

Dick hands clench on the tiny teacup. “He's _raping kids_.”

“ _Richard_.”

“I'll—I'll—I'll tell someone. I'll—”

“Go public with your unsubstantiated claims?” Even snapping, Alfred is rigidly controlled. He sets the teapot down with a sharp click, but still not near enough force to even chip it. “Reveal secrets that will destroy not just your own life, but the life of every person involved in Master Bruce's crusade? Make up wild theories?” Alfred presses his lips together, shaking his head. “After the pain we all have suffered, this family deserves to be _whole_ for once. Not torn apart.”

“They're not,” Dick all but chokes, “made up.”

“No one in this house will back up your claims,” Alfred says.

He doesn't even say it unkindly. He says it with calm honestly. It hurts more for that.

Dick already knows Tim won't say anything, unwilling to tell his own father—to even speak about it with _Dick_ , who already knows. Jason refuses to admit it, or just refuses to hear it. Bruce, of course, wouldn't take part in his own indictment. And Alfred will deny it. Flat out. Every single person who would have good reason to know, whose opinion would be trusted, far more than _Dick_ who hasn't lived here in years and couldn't even _see_ what was _right_ in front of him...

“Master Richard,” Alfred says softly. When Dick looks up, there's a genuine note of apology on his face. Alfred hates to argue with them, on the rare occasion they force him into it. “Do you understand? Why this is for the best?”

Dick nods dully. He understands. No one is going to help.

He's on his own.


End file.
